The Pentagram
The pentagram is deadly sticky—
Set to snare the angels’ wings,
Drawn with animosity,
To goad the rightful king of kings,
The gospel truth would raise the roof!
And set out spirits soaring,
With every prayer to heaven made,
For this bright hope imploring,
But works of darkness run the day,
And sit behind this mad affray,
The curses spoke in midnight’s cloak—
A subtle, doleful shadow play,
The pentagram in pointed shape,
With elemental puissance joined,
With spells to put the saints in chains,
With every new formed charm that’s coined,
A summoned ghost from hellish coves—
To fly against the throne of God,
The anger of the damned in flight,
By Satan’s star, scrawled in the sod,
A preparation of dismay,
With twists and turns that end in grief,
The Christ on high won’t light the sky,
As long as sordid Satan’s chief!
The magic beings from old time,
Enthralled by harsh, convincing words,
The creature that God made is cursed!
And should be yoked to Satan’s herds!
The fallen race that found disgrace,
By casting off the might of Christ,
In lieu of this, they stand remiss,
Bereft within a dark zeitgeist,
On twisting paths into the gloom,
Of stark tomorrows mired in hate,
For God is steadfast resolute,
That none should breach bright heaven’s gate!
The chance is done, the magic lives—
That points the mind to helpless loss,
The karma of the past — like lead,
A paralysing, poisoned dross,
The frog’s blood spilled, the skull in watch,
The blackened script from wry lipped mouth,
The racing principalities,
From east and west, from north and south!
The wild goetic beings raised—
By incantations formed of old,
The palaces of heaven warped,
Into a devilish stronghold,
Each soul that found a life in time,
By ancient rite and magic rhyme,
Is placed in whirlpool spirals long,
A sad, pernicious paradigm,
That face beyond the pale that stares—
What happened to that presence soft?
What is the tale of his betrayal?
Pray seek below, pray look aloft!
The truth is snared in forest deeps,
Under the briar, in deepest mine,
A riteousness that should be ours,
An uprightness that should be thine!
For magic formulas of spite,
Derailed our ladder climb to peace,
The neverending sickness cast—
Our bond with heaven sore deceased!
AD Lovkis, 26/07/25
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